Read Boaz Brown for Free Online Page B

from her cooking and looked at him above the rim of her glasses. “And I thank God every day I never had to work in another woman’s kitchen.”
    “Well, you can thank God   and   me. Somebody had to work around here.” Daddy headed toward the living room.
    “I worked right here in this house! Matter of fact, I’m still   workin’. They ain’t come up with a retirement plan for full-time mothers yet,” she fussed. “And anyways,   your   mother didn’t work.”
    “My momma knew how to make money stretch, though.” Daddy stopped in his tracks and pivoted to address any concerns Momma had about Grandmomma   Smith.  
    Please don’t get this man started on his momma.
    “Watch out, now. We don’t want to talk about mommas,” Momma tempted him.
    Daddy marched back into the kitchen. “I’ll call my momma up right now. I   betcha   she’ll hop out of that wheelchair and whip   anybody   try to jump bad with her.”
    “So what are you saying, Daddy? You want us to use some Vaseline for the rolls?” I tried to bring the stand-off to an end.
    Daddy waved his index finger at me. “Be careful, girl. You never know what you might have to do in a bad situation. You see how these white folks fixed that election back in two thousand? They never intended to let Al Gore become president. Had all those people in Florida   countin’ ballots like they were little elves or somethin’. If the blacks don’t get off their butts, we’re   gonna   be back on the boat!”
    “Momma, is he still   talkin’ ‘bout that election?” I asked her.
    “Just like it was yesterday,” she sighed.
    I set the table while the rolls browned. We used Momma’s best dishes every Sunday. The main platters had roses in full bloom splattered around the edges, while the plates and saucers had tiny buds sparsely placed near the rim. The silverware was engraved with the letter S. Momma said that we used them every Sunday because we never knew when it would be our last.
    She put the food in serving dishes, and Daddy went back to his lounge chair in the living room, looking over his shoulder every few minutes to see if we were ready yet.
    In the natural process of bending over to get the rolls out of the oven, I must have given my mother an eyeful of my thighs and behind.
    “You ain’t got   no   slip on under that dress?” she asked me, squinting to find a trace of silk or lace.
    Why is she watching my behind?   “No, Momma, I’m not wearing a slip.”
    “You got on a girdle?”
    “Momma, people wear shapers and control-top pantyhose. Most women don’t wear those heavy-duty girdles anymore.”
    “I don’t know who told you that!” She turned her back as she finished preparing the table, and talked to me over her shoulder. “In my day we didn’t like all our stuff   showin’ and   jigglin’.”
    “I’m   jigglin’, Momma?” I managed to laugh through what I considered an outright insult, the kind that only your mother can get away with.
    She sensed my dismay and compassionately explained her position.   “It ain’t   nothin’ wrong with you,   Shondra.   You’re a woman. You got the curves and lumps God gave his most beautiful creation on earth. But that ain’t for everybody to see. Shouldn’t nobody but you and your husband know the shape of your thighs, chile.”
    “This dress is denim, Momma. I don’t need a slip under it. Nobody can see my lumps through this.”
    “You’re supposed to wear a slip under   every   dress,” she fussed, taking hard breaths and willing her blood pressure to stay low. “I hope you ain’t   goin’ ‘round the saints at your church like that,   shakin’ your goodies and   provokin’ the men. They   gonna   think I didn’t teach you any better. They haven’t pulled you to the side and talked to you about it?”
    “No, Momma. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone being taken to the side,” I said. “Are they still putting handkerchiefs over